


Hear the Reaper Swing

by satellitescales



Category: Red Rising Series - Pierce Brown
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, other characters not mentioned in tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:27:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28848303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satellitescales/pseuds/satellitescales
Summary: The Sons of Ares wanted Eo, not Darrow. She is recruited, she is carved, she is sent to the Institute. Though that is not the only thing that changes. Characters take different paths, dead characters get a second chance, others get only one. An alternate universe that follows the plot of the books, but with some twists . . .
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

There were stories about this. Songs, poems, hymns.

They were all wrong.

Death is a feverish experience, muddied with the twisting of lights, a nauseating cacophony of smells, all blanketed with a numbing dizziness. Up is down. Left is right. Sensations bleed into each other. This was supposed to be peace, but it just feels like being launched headfirst into a nightmare.

Where is the Reaper? The Old Man? Where are the rolling plains of the Vale?

All of this is just  _ dark. _ A musty, oppressive dark, swirling around her, blotting out her senses. Occasionally she will resurface in a brief moment of lucidity and hear something like footsteps, feel something like arms carrying her, smell something like Martian soil . . .

Perhaps she is not dead after all.

First comes the feeling. The feeling of dirt. Between her fingers, her toes, pressing on her chest and the inside of her elbows. The smell comes next, and it  _ is _ the sharp tang of Martian soil. It has the damp malodor of the mines. She takes a tentative deep breath in, through her nose. With it comes a few particles of dirt.

She blinks, more dirt tumbling off her eyelashes. The craggy ceiling of a cave stares back at her.

Something is terribly, horribly wrong—and it isn’t the sour taste in her mouth or the tender flesh on her back. But it is  _ definitely _ the beating of her heart and inflating of her lungs and blood crawling in her veins. She  _ survived.  _ How? She drags herself out of the dirt, clawing her way free of a shallow grave. Once free, she shivers on all fours, mind reeling. There has to be an explanation for this.

Thinking back to the three days spent in that cell, nothing was off. Nothing  _ happened _ . She spent each day barely sleeping, barely eating, falling into a depressive routine of grief, interrupted only twice. Once, by Narol sneaking her the heel of some flaxbread and a thermos of swill, and then by the Grays dragging her out to see Darrow for the last time. Then it went on as public executions usually do, save the ArchGovernor. He and his dead, absent stare.

Harsh lights cut through the gloom. She flinches back, blinded. With the lights come the rumbling of a massive vehicle. It hisses to a stop in front of her. Doors slide open. Too dazed to fight back, she moves with the blurry figure guiding her inside the tumbler. It stinks of oil and fried dust. A single light hangs in a rusted cage from the ceiling. It jerks as the tumbler trundles out of the mines.

Across from her are two figures, sliced to pieces by the odd lighting. Both wear sneering, monstrous masks. The woman watches her openly, eyes baleful over the mask. The man sits off to the side, whole body closed in on himself like he doesn’t want to be here.

“ ‘Lo,” The woman drawls, carelessly crossing one leg over the other, “welcome back to the land of the living, Persephone.”

“That’s not my name.”

“I figured. So what  _ is _ your name, little one?”

“Eo.”

* * *

Dancer is a fierce old Red in a world where most die young. His hair gives to gray streaks, wrinkles line his eyes and mouth. He walks with a pronounced limp and his left arm is mostly useless. The skin on his neck is a ribbony mess of scar tissue that continues beneath his shirt. He’s a Helldiver, survived a pitviper attack, and has been fighting Golds for who knows how long. But when Eo asks one simple question, he flounders, backtracks, tries to change the subject.

Harmony picks up the slack. “Killed himself,” she grunts, picking dirt off the bottom of her shoe with a knife. Bits of mud flake off to the concrete floor of the Sons warehouse.

A piece of Eo crumbles away. She gulps down the dread clumping in her throat. “W-What?”

“Darrow—that’s the name of your Helldiver boy?”

Eo nods.

“The answer to what happened to him is simple: he cut you off the gallows, dragged your corpse to the mines, and when the Tinpots came for him the next morning, he didn’t put up a fight.”

“You’re lying.”

Harmony looks up, amused. “Why would I lie about something like that?”

“He wouldn’t.” Conviction leaves her as quick as it came. Was he even listening to her in the garden? She told him to live for  _ more.  _ Had that not meant anything to him? “He wouldn’t . . .”

“Well, he did. And—“

“Harmony,” Dancer warns.

She stuffs her knife back in her boot. “She needs to hear this. The sooner you let go of that boy, the better. What you did up there took guts, what he did was cowardly.”

“He is  _ not  _ a coward.”

“Was.”

Hate boils up in Eo. Before her mind catches up, she swings one leg out. Her shin connects with the back of Harmony’s legs and she goes down. Harmony rolls onto her feet, coming up with fists at the ready. Eo doesn’t know how to fight but she couldn’t care less. This anger has to go  _ somewhere _ .

Before it can go anywhere, Dancer wedges himself between the two of them. He holds his hands out for peace. “Both of you, please. Harmony, know when to stop. Eo, I understand this is a lot for you but you need to relax. We won’t get anything done fighting each other.”

Harmony puts her fists down with a slow, hard look. “Fine,” she says, drawn out like a knife’s edge. With that, she stalks to the back of the room. Dancer watches her go, exhausted.

Eo’s anger, with no outlet, simmers and crystallizes into a crushing sense of loss. Her legs struggle to keep her body upright. She glances up at Dancer. “You know, for sure, that he’s . . .”

Dancer only nods.

“How do you know? How do you—“

“We have people on the inside,” He says. Realizing she’s unsatisfied, he adds, “Narol. He’s been an informant for years. He’s how we found out about you.”

_ Narol.  _ Darrow’s uncle, the man who taught him how to dance. What is he doing now? Does he carry Darrow to the soft dirt of the mines? She can picture in her head, Narol and Darrow’s mother, Deanna, sitting outside at night on the porch, speaking in hushed tones to each other like the night Dale was hanged.

That thought alone makes the anger rise again.  _ It is not fair.  _ They don’t deserve an existence as miserable as that. None of them do.

Now that Eo is with the Sons of Ares, she can make change. She can  _ fight back _ .

“You brought me here for a reason,” Eo says slowly, not fully convinced her words won’t betray her and send her into tears. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

Dancer smiles.

* * *

“Ares wants it done,” Dancer says cooly.

“Ares. Ares. Ares,” Mickey tuts. “It doesn’t matter what Ares wants, you baboon. Nevermind the science. Her physical and mental dexterity is probably daft as a damn bowl cleaner’s. And her tangibles won’t match. She’s not their  _ species _ . She’s a Ruster!” He throws his hands, leaning back in the booth. The strobe lights make it difficult to focus on his scowl.

_ Ruster.  _ Eo bites the inside of her cheek. If she weren’t in an entirely new world with new rules and all, she’d roll up her sleeves and show this prick what a Ruster can do.

“I think she’ll surprise you.” Harmony smirks.

“Will she now?” Mickey tilts his head, “Why am I finding that difficult to believe?” He turns, unabashedly eyeing Eo up and down with stony contempt. His expression gives away to something lost in the flashing lights and smoke of the bar. A dry noise resembling a scoff breaks the spell. He shakes his head.

“Recognize me?” Eo asks.

Mickey just shakes his head more, pulling up a video on his datapad. He watches the first minute in silence. Eo shifts from foot to foot as Darrow’s screams melt with the club music. Mickey shuts it off with a flash of his fingers. He sits there a moment, staring at the dark screen, holding his head in his hands. Dancer taps his foot impatiently.

“You’re making a savior,” He says finally, casting a glare at the two Sons. “You’re making a messiah for your gorydamn cause.”

Not a second of hesitation. Dancer says, “Yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

He takes her sigils first.

Following this is a short period of rest where Eo has none. No sigils, no label defining her worth in the world. The skin on the back of her hands is messy and hastily cauterized, yet she can’t get over how clean it looks. This is what humanity used to look like, Harmony tells her. Eo doesn’t know what to make of that. She spends a lot of time sitting on the edge of her cot in that beige, damp room with all its humming machines and rattling pipes—just staring at the back of her hands, thinking.

Mickey comes back to insert the Gold sigils (“Where did you get these?” Eo had asked. Mickey’s only response was a tight-lipped smile with a finger pressed to his lips). When he finishes, he has Evey wrap up her arms.

“You did _magnificently_ , dear girl,” Mickey tells Eo, who can’t do more than lie down and nod feebly. Her body is exhausted. “Though, next time, do try to cut back on the squirming. As for recovery—you may lose feeling in your fingers for a few days, but that should be the least of your troubles. This is only the beginning of what will easily be one of the most daring and complicated operations ever achieved by man. If all goes well and you survive, that is.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Eo mutters, but Mickey is already on his way out to do . . . whatever it is he does. Evey stays back and finishes wrapping Eo’s hands. She doesn’t talk. Her presence is unimpeding and reserved, as if she’s used to being little more than a background decoration. Mickey favors her over all his other experiments, which means little more than he won’t sell her to the highest bidder and instead keeps her with him. The fact that those are her only options makes Eo seethe.

“Are you okay?” Eo asks suddenly. Evey blinks and takes a half-step back. “You barely talk and you’re always with . . . him. I’d go bloody mad if I had to be around Mickey all the time.” She throws in a laugh. Evey doesn’t return it.

“There is not a lot to do around here,” Evey replies in that willowy whisper of hers, then adds, “not a lot I enjoy, at least. You are . . . a change.”

“A good change?”

Evey tilts her head in what could barely be considered a nod. All her movements are so silted and polite, like she’s terrified of making any sort of fuss.

“If you ever want to talk,” Eo says, “about anything—I will listen. I’ll have a lot of time on my hands, recovering and all. I’ll need someone to pass the time with.”

She smiles—a chaste, fragile expression—and nods again, this time with more vigor. A few strands of her elaborately bound pink hair come loose.

The next time Evey comes to Eo’s room, she sits down on a beat-up plastic chair (leading the ends of her wings over the back so they are not crushed) and starts talking. About everything and nothing. She talks with her hands. It adds a physical element that keeps Eo captivated even when the subject matter is outright boring. Once she gets going, she relaxes and more of herself starts to shine through. It makes it all more apparent that Mickey’s kept her on a short leash. For a while.

* * *

Eo wakes from one of many surgeries to a sobering discovery. It makes sense, though. Logically she should have seen this coming. Still, it stings, deep in her chest, and not just from being cut up and sewn back together. It hurts like _loss_. A strange and new loss. She is not herself, not anymore. The Eo her family knew—the Eo Darrow knew—was left somewhere in all the blood transfusions, bone transplants, resFlesh, cutting, scraping, pulling, taking, taking, _taking_. If she could see herself in a mirror . . .

Best not to think about that. For now, at least.

Mickey, Evey, Harmony, and Dancer come in to check up on her. Harmony nods studiously at her progress. Dancer asks her how she’s doing while Mickey putters around the room, rifling through dusty drawers full of equipment and tools. Evey waits by the door like a shadow.

“You . . . changed my voice,” Eo croaks, hating the sound, hating how it feels through her throat and over her tongue. It doesn’t match up with her inner voice either, which is disorienting.

“Your voice is all over the holoNet,” Dancer tells her gently. “We couldn’t risk it.”

“Right . . .” It would have been better to have some kind of warning, though. This is too much too soon. Then again, what would she have done with her voice before they took it? Say goodbye? To whom? Evey’s the closest thing to a friend she has and that relationship is contractual and tenuous as best. And her family . . . Stars, what’s become of them? Are they okay? Are they still grieving?

The room seems a lot quieter all of a sudden. Will she ever see Dio again? Dain? Her parents?

Harmony picks up on a change in Eo’s expression and pats her leg under the thin sheet. “We’ll leave you alone for a bit.” She jerks her chin at the door. “Let’s give the girl some space, alright? She’s been through a lot.”

Eo wants to tell them to stay. _Beg_ them to stay. Someone, _anyone_. Eo can’t be alone with her thoughts. Not now, not ever. If she had someone to talk to, she wouldn’t spiral. Her mind wouldn’t wander back to Lykos, to everything and everyone she’s lost. Eo watches them file out of the room, unable to bring herself to speak lest she hear what her voice has become.

The door closes on rusted hinges and Eo is alone.

* * *

It is later, far later on, when Eo feels the courage to confront Mickey. Previously she wouldn’t have said anything out of line to the man with a knife to her every day, but things have changed. She’s grown bigger, stronger, faster. She can walk again and spends more time awake.

“Evey,” Eo says by way of starting conversation. She pulls one arm across her chest, going through the stretches Harmony taught her. The Gold sigils sweeping down her wrists catch the light. Eo doesn’t like to look at them. It feels good to be on her feet again; no longer confined to that bed.

Mickey nods, still sorting through whatever junk he has stashed in a modular set of drawers. “The girl, yes. You two have grown quite close,” He adds with a smirk. “What about her?”

“You’re keeping her here.”

He detects her tone and turns (and has to look up to meet her eyes, which Eo still finds bewildering), peering at her through the humidity and dust particles. “So I am.” His eyes squint at her over a pair of magnifying spectacles. “Is it wrong to keep a painting in a studio? A sculpture in a museum?” He asks.

Eo abandons her stretches. “She’s a person.”

“She is a masterpiece.”

“She’s miserable.”

Mickey’s jaw tightens. “Did she tell you that?”

“Oh, come on. It doesn’t take a genius to tell that she hates it here. All she does is whatever you tell her to do. That’s not—it isn't living. You’ve taken everything from her, from all of the people you collect so you can rip them apart and sell them off.” The words spill out of her swiftly, angrily.

Mickey scoffs in indignation. A very _well I never!_ sound. “You make it all sound so gruesome. What I do is tame compared to what goes on in the deeper recesses of the Society. If I weren’t doing this, someone far worse would be, and they would not be nearly as merciful as I.” He shakes his head as if this is all so trite. “What is the point of this little outburst, exactly?”

“Let her go.”

“Go? Go where?” Mickey gestures around the room—the sagging ceiling, moldy floorboards, cluttered cabinets and stacked storage crates. Music from the club drifts up through the floor. “This is the safest place for someone like her. You haven’t seen much of the surrounding areas, so I can chalk this up to naivete on your part, but she would hate it out on her own. She needs me.”

“That’s her decision to make, not yours.” Fury bubbles up inside her. Eo takes a step towards him and notes with a twinge of horror and something bordering on satisfaction that Mickey involuntarily steps back. She _looms_ over him. “Let her go.”

“Or what?” Mickey asks. His voice wavers. His gaze is locked over her shoulder, refusing to meet her eyes. He asks again and Eo doesn’t respond. Sweat beads on his forehead. Finally he says, between clenched teeth, “Fine! Fine. I will . . . find a way to make that happen.” She backs off him and his shoulders sag with relief. He looks at her differently from then on.

* * *

Fighting with a razor (or, the neoPlast training equivalent) is a lot like dancing. It’s about movement, balance, and anticipating your partner’s next move. It comes to Eo—not naturally, but swiftly, as if she’s been building up to this her whole life. The Gold reflexes and bone density certainly helps, though it’s something she’s still adjusting to. Sometimes she’ll overextend and lose her balance, tumbling down on the training mats Harmony set up.

Everything beyond fighting and dancing she struggles with. To the point that Matteo asks her if she has a hole in her head that all his lessons are falling out of. Mickey takes great offense to this. While they bicker, Dancer shows up in the doorway and beckons Eo out. They leave the chaos of the Sons Yorkton base behind, voices muffled behind the closed door. The hallway is drab and empty. Ages old paint curls off the walls. Stains seep through the ceiling. Voices drift through flimsy doors and thin walls.

Dancer hasn’t seen her in a while—off on some mission Eo didn’t catch the details of—and it shows. He takes a few seconds to just stare up at her. Which would be a lot more awkward if she wasn’t used to it by now. The staring, that is. Still, it makes her distinctly aware of how she looks. 

Like a Gold. Like one of _them_.

“You’re learning fast,” Dancer says after a moment of silence. Eo nods. “How are you feeling?”

“About what?”

“Everything. The entrance exam is coming up.” He leans against the wall, crosses his arms. “You need to be ready.”

“I am.”

“So sure of yourself . . .”

Eo senses the movement before it happens. A shift in the air. She reels back, grabbing Dancer’s arm by the wrist. She could break his arm in one move. The thought worms its way into her head and she lets him go. Dancer chuckles and shakes out his hand. There’s a ring on one of his fingers. From the end protrudes a blade.

“Testing you,” He says lightheartedly. Another small flick of his fingers and the blade disappears.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. Don’t ever apologise. And not just because it isn’t what a Gold would do, or whatever Matteo’s teaching you. No, don’t apologise because you’ve got nothing to apologise for. You’re fighting for what’s right. Sometimes it won’t feel like that . . .” His gaze drifts, and Eo wonders how long he’s been doing this, what his story is. He continues, “And though we’re building you up to be the best of the best—a bloodydamn _machine_ —you tie it all together. The Carving, the sigils, the strength. It’s all just the ticket inside. You tear them apart with what you’ve already got.”

“Which is?”

“You don’t need me to tell you what you’ve got.” He pokes her chest. “It’s the thing that made you sing, the thing that’s kept you alive this far. Use that, and we might just have a fighting chance.” He winks.

So much rests on her shoulders.

* * *

Harmony sits with her boots up on the table, leaning precariously back in an old, creaking dining chair. Her calloused fingers pluck melancholy notes out of an old wooden zither. She’s carried it around before. There are engravings on the sides, but Eo is never close enough to tell what they say. Harmony closes her eyes, head bobbing along with the melody. She is not as good as Darrow was, or even Dio, but her songs carry a wretched solemnity. Soon Eo forgets her studies and lets the music carry her back to Lykos.

“Do you play?” Harmony asks suddenly, fingers still working the zither.

“Not well.”

An awkward smile tugs the corner of her scarred face. She stands, song dropping off, and drifts to Eo’s haphazard little workstation. Shoving aside a few books she makes a space for herself to sit on the table. With a meaningful look she hands the instrument to Eo.

“Never too late to learn, fighter. I’ll teach you.”

Up close it’s clear the engravings are names. Eo runs her fingers along them, feeling the grooves with her fingernail. When she looks up at Harmony, she’s turned her head, staring off at nothing, eyes hard as flint.

“My family,” She says, just barely, lets her gaze drift. She runs a hand through her tangled hair and nudges the zither, sucking air through her nose. “It’s difficult, but you’re a fast learner. Here, I’ll get you started . . .”


	3. Chapter 3

“Eo,” She says, the name  _ Lykos _ stuck in the back of her throat. “Eo au Andromedus.”

Julian wrinkles his nose. “That’s an odd name.”

“Is it?” Eo feigns indifference. The shuttle is starting to feel cramped, surrounded by all these young killers. “My parents gave it to me—can’t exactly ask them why.”

He blinks and his expression softens. “My apologies for your loss.”

Already this lie is tiresome. Eo plays absently with a lock of gold hair, hating its alien texture, color. This is not the hair Darrow used for his wedding band. Feeling dirty, she lets it fall and smoothes out the fabric of her ludicrously expensive pants. “Do you know anything about the Institute?”

Julian looks confused.

Too forward. She summons the conversation etiquette Matteo taught her. “Living off planet kept my family and I mostly out of the loop. The Institute is a mystery to me.”

“It is to me as well. My father is an Imperator, yet neither I nor my siblings know much about what happens there.” He stares out the shuttle window as if he can already see it, eyes reflecting the bleeding oranges and purples of the sunset. Distantly, he adds, “though I have heard rumors.”

Eo leans forward conspiratorially. “Rumors?”

“Could you two be a little louder? I can still hear myself think.” There’s a kid sitting in the back of the shuttle, glaring pointedly at Eo and Julian. He sneers when they make eye contact.

Julian instantly takes offense, sputtering something about “decency,” which sounds hilarious coming from a Gold. The two of them bicker back and forth until the boy, Sevro, says something witty. Julian scoffs indignantly, crosses his arms, and makes a show out of ignoring him.

By the time the shuttle dips back into its buzzing quiet of casual conversation and the hum of the tram, Agea is upon them. A megacity of flashing neons, pulsing lights, mazes of skyscrapers, and hundreds of thousands—millions?—of people. Yorkton pales in comparison to this beast. It juts from the Valles Marineris like the crystals growing from a geode. Just beyond the city, in a minor canyon branching off to the side, all marble and stone and potential, is the Institute.

* * *

The testing room was cool and clean and sterilized. The shuttle was awkward and stifling. The dining hall of the Institute is grandiose and stuffed full of Golds who are all chatting and laughing and  _ socializing _ —which means Eo has to as well.

The inside of the Institute is as enormous and overbearing as the outside. High ceilings, wide marble pillars, statues of prominent Scarred Golds. The dining hall feels wider, grander, more spacious. This effect is due mostly to the holosky spanning across the ceiling, boring down acrylic blue with the occasional flock of birds overhead. It is absurdly expensive and utterly useless, which seems to be the theme, whether intentional or not. The tables are nearly as long as the room itself, with chairs lined up end to end.

Eo hasn’t seen this many Golds in one place before. It’s alien, the way they interact. Or, it’s not the interactions that are strange—it’s seeing Golds in a casual environment, interacting with each other as friends and families would back in Lykos. The scene comes into stark contrast with Eo’s most memorable interactions with Golds—which includes the Sovereign on the HC and the ArchGovernor ordering her death. Not the best first impression.

Speaking of first impressions—Eo tries her best. She smiles and meets their eyes and makes light, stilted conversation. It’s not fun, it’s not interesting, and it is absolutely terrifying. Anxiety buzzes in the back of her brain the entire time. Makes her fingertips numb. If she says something wrong, will they know? What will they do then?

The faces she meets at her table are a varied bunch. Some she recognizes, others she doesn’t. Julian, from the shuttle, is the twin of Cassius, a handsome boy she met during the entrance exam. Cassius is proud and easygoing. Eo hates him. He seems all too happy to be here. Julian, farther down on the table with the midDrafts, spends more time listening than he does talking. They’re the same height, with the same light curly hair. Julian’s eyes are slightly wider, lips more pursed. Where his brother puffs his chest out, Julian sits straight, hands in his lap, legs together. He keeps casting glances over at his twin like this is the first time they’ve ever been apart.

Others sitting around Eo—the highDrafts—include the cruelly gorgeous Antonia, who opens her mouth only to insult and jeer. Everything she says is twinged with sarcasm, though not nearly as much as Vixus. At one point he throws some salacious remark in Eo’s direction and it takes an undue amount of self-control not to kick him beneath the table. When she doesn’t give him the attention he so pleases, he moves on to chat up Cassandra, who seems equally unnerved. Watching everyone from the lower end of the highDraft section is a giant by the name of Titus. He clearly hates being here, which means he and Eo have at least one thing in common.

The evening progresses. Eo keeps herself from looking suspicious but at the same time from being remarkable at all. If she keeps her side of the conversation short and neutral, the Golds will leave her be, for the most part. Antonia, sitting on Eo’s left, has turned her seat so she can have a heated debate with Cassandra. Cassius has wandered off to talk with the midDrafts. Eo enjoys the relative solitude. Until . . .

“Not a fan of crowds?” It’s the boy in the seat next to Cassius. What was his name?

“You could say that,” Eo replies neutrally. They shake hands over the table and introduce themselves. His name is Roque. Looks like the type with family in high places.

“Eo,” He repeats. “Is that an . . . ancestral name?” Maybe taking a fake Gold name would have been better if only for the fact that people would stop asking these stupid questions. 

“I’m not sure, actually,” She replies, feigning polite enthusiasm. “It was my father’s idea.”

He doesn’t push it. Good. “I’m sure you’re used to hearing that.” He nods at her chair. “You have quite the high score. I’m sure that took a lot of hard work.”

Eo leans back in her seat. “Eh, it was a breeze. Barely had to study.” Lies. All of it. But this whole thing is a lie anyway. Might as well have some fun.

Roque looks a little unsettled. Some of the conversations around them stop. Eo backtracks with a lighthearted chuckle. “I’m only messing with you. The entrance exam took over my life for months. It was grueling. But now I’m here, and I can’t say it wasn’t worth it.”

That seems to placate him. Conversation starts up again and Eo breathes an inward sigh of relief. They continue with mild small talk until Cassius drops back into his seat, grinning and rambling on about gravcross. At one point his attention slides to the lowDrafts and he gives them crude nicknames. All but one. Sevro. He sits at the very end of the table. Lowest score. Doesn’t speak to anyone. Seems like fine company.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw - blood, violence, death  
> it's the passage. you have been warned.

The room is small. Stone floors, walls, ceiling. Architecture so cramped and stifling it bores down on you. Something leaks between the brickwork, leaving trails of chalky mineral deposits down the wall. In the center of the room, gleaming dully in the weak light, is a ring. Engraved in the center is a geometric wolfshead—the symbol of House Mars. It slowly comes into focus as Eo recovers from the pounding in her head, pulls herself off the floor.

There is one other person in here with her. He rises to his feet, gaze not once moving from the ring on the floor between them. His smile from earlier has been replaced by something more vulnerable, more human. Eo stands against the wall opposite him, dusty chill hitting her bare skin. Dread settles over the two of them. Dread and a simple, painful understanding.

Only one of them gets the ring. Only one of them gets into House Mars.

Gold bloodlust doesn’t stop even for their children. This is where it starts—how they foster new generations of killers. Is there no limit to their cruelty? Who is this boy but a confused teenager? He gave his future to this world, and now it is going to show him how little that future matters.

Eo tries to meet his gaze but he’s making an effort to avoid her eyes. His jaw works, sweat beading out under his golden curls. He’s bigger than her, with likely years of training behind him. He begins pacing, Eo follows suit. He expects her to fight like a Gold. That can be used against him.

“This isn’t personal,” He mutters to the floor.

It is, but Eo doesn’t tell him that. She doesn’t say anything.

He makes the first move. He lunges for her, arms out for her neck. Eo sees the tilt of his back leg and slips away before he fakes out and tries to sweep her legs out from under her. As he reels back from the miss, Eo dips behind him. She kicks the back of his knee. He stumbles forward, catching himself.

They fall again into tense circling. The tension in the room tightens quickly as it was broken. He watches her watch him. The room is humid, air thick with sweat. Eo’s toes slide over the stone floor. A thought slowly starts to eat at her.

_ She’s going to have to kill this boy. _

He rushes her. He’s fast, pinning her to the wall, knocking the breath from her lungs. Her wrists grind in the wall where he holds her there, opposite arm elbowing into her throat. Nothing in those big Gold eyes but fear. As he crushes her windpipe he shakes, horrified at his own strength. Eo sputters and kicks. Each small movement squeezes more air from her. She’s sure she hears her collarbone creak under his weight. She can’t die. Not here, not now, with so much more she has to do. Pressure builds behind her eyes. Her head spins. She gains her wits through the stars and the weight and the choking. Her knee connects with his crotch. He doubles over. Taking a breath, she reels back and knocks her head against his. The sound is like a thunderclap. The crown of his head cuts her brow bone open. Blood sheets over her left eye.

The young Bellona groans on the ground. He tries to get to his feet. Despite her swimming vision and depleted lungs, she kicks him in the chest. His bones make a wet, unsavory sound. He lands flat on his back and she pounces on him. She pins his arms down with her knees, leans her weight on his chest.

_ She has to kill him. _

Eo wraps her fingers around his neck. Tendons stretch, blood throbbing. He thrashes, feet scrambling on the stone floor. The screams that come out of this boy are animalistic. Eo is dizzy, partially blinded by blood. Everything in her body screams at her to stop.

She leans more weight onto his esophagus. He coughs out insults, trying to spit on her face. Her vision blurs more and only then does she realize she’s crying. As the muscles beneath his skin wrench and push against her fingers, he screams. It vibrates in her ears and echoes off the walls. Eo fumbles, frantically trying to end it. She presses down harder, the bones in her wrists grinding against each other. Her nails tear at his skin. She fixes her grip harder. Something cracks. The boy sputters, limbs convulsing. Blood flecks his lips. His eyes get wide, then faraway, then blank. The pulse at Eo’s fingertips slows.

She killed him. 

She’s no better than them. The winged sigils on the back of her hands mock her. Her fingernails are red.

Eo keens over the boy, mouth open in a long, silent scream. She sobs with her whole body, hands scraping the floor, muscles in her face twisted into a mask of horror. He was a  _ person _ . He was a child with a family and cousins and parents and siblings. He had thoughts in his head and blood in his heart and he was a bloody  _ child _ . He meant something to someone and now he’s just a naked and bruised corpse in an uncaring stone room. The only crime he committed was not being able to kill another human being.

When she opens her eyes, the wolf ring is staring back at her.

This is the world Gold built, one with murdered children as its foundation. If she needed another reason to tear it all down, this is it.

She feels so small and disgusting taking the ring off the floor and slipping it on her finger. This is only the beginning and blood is already on her hands.

Eo leans over and retches on the stone. Nothing comes out but stomach acid and a twisted sob. She can’t stop looking at his face. The dim light hollows out his features as if he’s been dead for months. Ghastly white limbs splay out at uncanny angles. He doesn’t look Gold. He looks small and brittle, like the bodies left to stink on the gallows in Lykos. She did that with her  _ hands _ . She took another person’s life and, Gold or not, it makes her insides churn. What’s worse is that she knows it will happen again.

The door opens for her and Eo steps into a lengthy, dark hallway. It is empty but for a mingling mess of bloody footprints and a few shadowy figures treading silently toward dim light. Crying echoes from somewhere far off.

* * *

Eo joins the others, dressed and washed of any evidence. The room the tunnels lead into is sparse, with a table and House Mars tapestries. It is spacious compared to that decrepit stone room. Lit torches line the walls and food sits on the table. Looking at it makes Eo want to throw up again. Her housemates stand staggered around the room. Few mingle. Most stand alone, watching the floor, holding themselves, or crying. Eo lingers at the wall by the door, not knowing where to go, what to do. The world moves around her but she barely notices—watching it all like an outside observer.

A hand lands on her shoulder, pulling her back into this horrid reality. A boy her age with laughing eyes and curly blond hair offers a terse smile. A fresh pink cut makes a mess of the side of his mouth. Red and purple erupt from the side of his jaw, just below the ear. He gives the room a quick once-over, looking for his brother. Eo hopes he doesn’t feel her blood run cold.

Julian gives her a forced smile. “Glad to see you here. I don’t know how I’d survive stuck with this lot.” 

Eo clenches her hand into a fist, around the ring she killed his brother to get.

“You too,” She mumbles.

“How long have you been out here?”

“I haven’t been . . .” Eo collects her voice. “I haven’t been keeping track of the time. If I had to say—maybe ten minutes.”

Julian nods as if this corroborates something he already knows. “You took care of it fast, then.”

“Mhm.”

He eyes her ring, then looks back at the crowd again, searching for a face that now stares unseeing at a stone ceiling. They look so alike it’s painful.

“I didn’t think they would . . .” He loses his train of thought. “I hadn’t known it would be like this.”

“None of us did.”

That seems to comfort him a bit. “It shouldn’t be like this. This is . . . it’s madness.”

Eo wants to turn and scream at him. Is he so diluted he doesn’t know his own kind?  _ This _ is Gold. This is the Society his parents and grandparents built. She holds her tongue, tasting bile in the back of her throat.

They stand together in an odd silence as the others slowly trickle in. Some look worse than others. Antonia didn’t wash all the blood from her hair. Titus’ knuckles are split, flashing an angry red. He grins like a bloodydamn monster. Quinn’s eye is swollen shut and black. She sits at the very end of the table and cries until Roque takes the seat next to her. For a while, theirs are the only voices in the room.

Fitchner strides in after a short while. He starts a speech and all the students drift to the table. Eo leaves Julian to glance around the room desperately. He is the last one standing. Eventually, Fitchner has to stop talking and shout at Julian to take a seat. He does, dazed, thoughts somewhere else. He stares at his hands in his lap. At one point Eo looks over at him to find him crying silently.


	5. Chapter 5

Castle Mars came generously equipped with rickety wood furniture, cobwebs, and the stench of mold. Fitchner thinks this hilarious. He is alone in that sentiment. Half of the House stayed back in the castle while Eo, Fitchner, and the others went to get a feel for the surrounding territory. It is, as Sevro so aptly describes, “pretty shit,” but they’re just starting out. At least it’s something. Quinn points this out and Fitchner just laughs.

They jog a mild incline to the crest of a short drop into a field of grass. It’s only their first day, but already cliques have begun to form. A small group coalesces around Titus. They always seem to be sneering at something or another. The lowDrafts mostly keep to themselves. The highDrafts not with Titus pair off in smaller groups of twos and threes. There are no outliers but Eo, who keeps to the front, restless to distance herself from the Passage. Also, Julian, who hangs back, holding his arms to his chest. His face is red from crying. Eo can’t help the tug of agony she feels whenever she sees him, so she avoids him.

Antonia shields her eyes against the low morning sun. “What is that?”

Eo follows her gaze down into the lowlands. A thick black ship hovers above a small clearing cramped with foldable tables topped with all sorts of food and drink. The last of the uniformed Browns finish setting everything out and leave in the ship.

“Trap,” Sevro grunts, all of a sudden at the edge of the summit. Eo jumps. She didn’t notice him move.

“What an astute observation, Goblin!” Fitchner snarks. Sevro just takes it. The others catch up and peer over the edge.

There isn’t any food back at the castle, and they don’t have many weapons to hunt with. Eo rolls the stiffness from her shoulders. “Who cares?” she says. They’re downwind from the tables and the smell is really starting to get to her.

Antonia snorts contemptuously. There’s general muttering. They think she’s crazy. Fitchner hovers on his gravBoots, supremely entertained by this whole thing.

“What? I’m starving. The castle’s empty. Are we just supposed to decide it’s a trap and then roll over and let some other house take it?” That rouses their competitive Gold egos. “You—” She points at Quinn, who looks the least ready to bite her head off or ignore her outright— “and me. Let’s see who gets down there first.”

“A race?” Quinn asks, raising an eyebrow. She puts her hands on her hips.

“Something like that.” Feeling provocative, she adds, “Not scared of losing, are you?”

Quinn scoffs, glancing around at the others like  _ is this girl serious _ , but it works. She joins Eo at the edge. “Fine.” She says with a slight smirk, “but you have no idea who you’re up against.”

“Then show me.” Eo grins and takes off. Quinn quickly catches up with and then outpaces her. Her long brown legs barely touch the ground. She makes it to the tables well before Eo does. From up on the rocks, someone starts clapping.

Quinn gulps water from a pitcher as Eo walks up. She claps Quinn on the shoulder and gets her own water. It tastes leagues better than the stuff in Lykos.

“You . . .” Eo pants between sips, “are slagging fast.”

“I warned you.” Quinn grins at the praise.

“Next time I’ll listen,” Eo says. They both laugh. The rest of the house watch them from the rocks. On the other side of the field, hidden partially by a smattering of trees and the swell of hills, is another castle. Banners flutter from the high towers.

“Ceres,” Quinn says. But Eo’s attention is down in the grass. It too kicks and flutters in the breeze, creating a faint whispering. There’s a patch, unimpeded by trees or rocks, where the wind barely stirs the grass, as if something is hidden within . . .

Eo takes a step back seconds before they explode out of the grass. Quinn yelps. 

Five of them. Ceres sigils on their fatigues. Eo kicks the table into them. The plastic cracks. Two go down. Quinn tears off a table leg and Eo does the same. It’s made of light, flimsy plex. One of the Ceres Golds comes for Quinn and she hits them flat on the neck. They let out a strained puff of air and fall. Eo tries something similar on the boy who comes at her, but he brushes it off and lands a punch in Eo’s stomach. She nearly takes Quinn down with her, but Quinn is faster. She drives the boy back long enough for Eo to stagger to her feet. Quinn ensures he isn’t getting back up anytime soon. 

The last one is interesting. He’s slightly taller than her. Lean, with a faded scar on his chin. In his hand is a slingBlade. Eo has seen them before. Nasty things. Can’t seem to figure out why a Gold—and more importantly,  _ not  _ a Helldiver—would have it, but—

The slingBlade slices through the air, sending a hail of shorn grass.

Reaping grain, then. Ceres has farmland.

The kid charges her, unused to the feel of the weapon. She has no weapon to misuse, so technically she’s got the advantage in that regard. She ducks to the side and he stumbles forward with nothing to hit. She kicks the back of his knees out. When he falls, the slingBlade skitters into the grass. They both scramble over the dirt to get it. Sensing her behind him, the kid kicks Eo in the shoulder, pushing her back. She claws up his legs, getting on his back, wrapping her arms around his neck in a chokehold. His arm, reaching for the blade, falters, then falls with the rest of him when he blacks out.

Eo hefts the slingBlade, tests its weight between her hands. Darrow had one of these. Are they supposed to be this light? She always thought of it as some mighty, terrifying thing. It seems so much smaller. Could be that it’s less imposing up close, could be that she’s nearly twice the size she was a year ago.

Fitchner floats down. He’s joined by Proctor Ceres, who sneers down at Eo and Quinn. The two of them hover generously above the field, removed from the violence. They titter and laugh amongst themselves as a handful of Eo’s housemates clamber down the cliffside. Ceres observes the remnants of the battle, smiling amiably.

Her eyes land on Eo’s slingBlade and she calls out, “Oh, Reaper! You and your friend here are quite the little fighters.” Her tone is nothing if not condescending.

Quinn gives Eo a look like  _ don’t bother. _ Eo bothers.

“You seem pretty happy despite the fact that the two of us took down five of your students.”

Ceres laughs with Fitchner. “The fire in this one! You’re Mars through and through, my dear.” Her shoulders slide back. “But truly, what is five students?” The few who are still conscious hear this and frown. “There are always more.”

It’s then that Eo hears something. Something thundering over the hillside.

“They gave you horses?” Fitchner cries.

At least two dozen Ceres students crest the hill. All on horseback. Eo curses and shouts for everyone to “RUN!” Not that it needs to be said. They all take off back to the castle, leaving the food behind.

* * *

Tension increases as the days pass. Their lack of resources is becoming less of a drawback and more of a genuine, glaring problem.

“It feels intentional,” Cassandra says one day. “Are we the  _ only _ House lacking resources?”

“Pretty sure the intent was for us to remedy that, and not sit on our asses and complain,” Titus sneers. He does that a lot. His gaggle of followers has grown into something larger and more sinister. They hoard one end of the long wood table in the Mars warroom.

“No one has given up, we’re only speculating. Fitchner did say on the first day that Mars is known to burn bright and not last long. Perhaps they’re expediting the process for us,” Roque suggests.

Lea frowns. “You’re saying the game is rigged?”

“Of course it’s not  _ rigged _ ,” Antonia says, unconvincingly.

“But if it is,” Eo says, catching everyone’s attention, “that means the Proctors don’t want us to win. They’re expecting us to fall easily. We have to prove them wrong.”

This catches a few words of agreement but does little to end the quarreling. It continues for days. They just can’t seem to agree on anything, to the point that the little cliques from early on mutate into entire mini-factions. Loyalties form alongside grudges. Every time Eo or someone else suggests banding together so they can get things done, someone always demands to know who put her in charge. Which sparks—you guessed it—more arguments.

Though Titus and Antonia make up two entire subsections of this House Mars Disaster, they have unanimously decided to ignore the mid and lowDrafts for the most part. Sure, they’ve each collected a few of the “good ones,” but everyone else is just an obstacle to them. It’s absurd how even in a closed environment with no other Colors, they’ll fabricate a system to make others somehow “lesser.” Eo makes a point of including all the lowDrafts, dregs, and undesirables she can. It’s begun to work in her favor—she’s amassed a bit of a following of her own.

The one consistent outlier is Julian, who barely does anything but sulk. He’s letting everyone walk all over him. Eo would be fine with this—it’s his choice—if it weren’t for the fact that he’s one of the few Golds here with some degree of empathy.

Eo notices he hasn’t been eating. Granted, the entire house is practically skin and bones at this point, but he barely gets any of the little food they  _ do _ have. Eo suspects the highDrafts have been keeping it from him and the others. She finds him seated in the corner of the lofty mess hall, alone as usual. He glances up miserably when she shoves a plate in front of him.

“You should eat.”

Julian just stares at her.

She nudges the plate. “You can’t  _ not _ eat. If we’re gonna win this thing, we need everyone fed and ready to fight.”

After a moment he feebly picks up the fork like he’s doing it for the first time and mumbles a “thank you” before starting to eat. They sit in silence for the rest of the evening.

From then on, Julian won’t leave her alone. He’s attached himself to her. Always on her heels, at her side. He’s still distant and bleary-eyed most of the time, but he starts helping out and getting things done. He even joins Eo on one of her scouting trips. She thought conversation with him would be as slow going as it usually is, but he comes out of his shell a bit. Makes the whole thing a little more interesting.

“What’s your experience with the wilderness?” He asks, trailing behind her. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “I lived at the edge of Olympia—my family has a citadel there. There was a grove on the edge of the property. It was small, considering.” Realizing he’s lagging, he jogs a few steps to keep up with her. Eo shoves a low-hanging branch out of her way and Julian ducks beneath it. “We used to sneak back there and duel with sticks,” In a smaller voice he adds, “Cassius and I.”

Which is Eo’s cue to change the topic. With . . . stories from her fake life. It’ll be fine. It’ll be  _ fine _ . She’s practiced for situations just like this.

In Julian’s solemn silence, Eo starts, “I, for one, haven’t seen this many trees in one place.” Throw in a laugh. Julian musters a polite smile, drawn from his spiraling. “My family moved around a lot. I think I spent more of my childhood on a ship than with my feet on the ground.”

“Really?” Julian wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think I could bear being cooped up inside all the time. How did you survive?”

“Oh, you know . . .”

Is that stone through the brush? Is there another castle this close? Surely she would have noticed something else before this. Eo pushes past the trees into a small clearing. The thick green gives way to not a castle but a stout stone fort.

Julian walks towards it, eager to explore. Eo grabs his sleeve, pulling him back. She crouches low and puts a finger to her lips.

“We may not be the first people here,” She whispers. Julian nods and follows her lead.

No one’s inside. Shoved into the corner of the dim room is a stash of supplies. Most notably: matches. Julian gives her a meaningful look, there, in the shelter far from Castle Mars.

No one else can know about this. Not yet.


End file.
